Molly read the same page she’d read a hundred times over during the three weeks since delivery of his letter. Twenty-one days of frustrating mental turmoil triggered by a single sheet of scribbled black ink. The other two pages barely touched, though full of what she wanted to hear, as the words of page three ensnared her mind in a clinging mesh of unfamiliar and increasingly desperate indecision.

Should she? Shouldn’t she? How could she, but why couldn’t she? Should she obey …no, not that… blind obedience was as alien to her as dithering was. Yet for the past three weeks she’d dithered. So why not obey…why not give her total, unquestioning support? No, anything but that! That would bring back the uncontrollable fear of hearing the doorbell’s toll. Bring back the sheer dread of reading what the telegram boy held in his hand. She could not, would not return to that – but how could she betray him? Betray the only person that made her life worth living?

"How can you expect this of me? "Why, George, why? Why must you be so…ugggggh?" she yelled as she screwed up that well-thumbed page and launched it across her dressing table at its author’s silver-framed photograph, knocking it to the floor with a clatter then ricocheting off and disappeared through the gap between wall and curtain.

Leaping to her feet, she moved quickly around the dresser to pick up George’s uniformed image, "I’m so sorry, my darling, so sorry," she sobbed as she planted her lips on his effigy before replacing the photograph in its rightful position atop her dresser. Then, yanking open the heavy bedroom curtains, she retrieved her projectile from inside the large Georgian Bay window, and hurriedly opened it out on the dresser top before pushing down with all her might and moving her hands back and forth across the crinkled page. But those creases, like her anxiety, refused to be pressed out of existence. So, clutching the crumpled, tear-splattered sheet to her breast she slumped back into her chair.

The Georgian Bay’s newly exposed windowpanes drew her eyes like wasps to open-topped jam jars as she caught sight of her own mirrored image. Frosty and unfeeling little squares, she mused, so cold to the touch and more brittle than any other single thing in this world, but powerful enough to capture my eyes and thoughts as you arrogantly reflect my own false image back at me. Wood-framed, two-faced portrayers of clarity and deception; clear enough in daylight when showing me the world outside, but so deceptive now, so deceitful when you display this false effigy of a loving and caring wife in your pre-dawn blackness.

Just a hairbrush propelled with very little force would end your hypnotic power, just as a wrong move by me now could shatter his love for me as easily as glass.

Tearing her eyes away, her gaze fell upon his silver-framed photograph standing proudly to attention once more atop the dresser. "You ask more than I can give," she sighed as she picked him up, her fingers gently stroking his darkly handsome, moustachioed face. "Oh, George, most of your heartache is my doing and my whole body aches just to hold you close once more. But I know I must never give in to your request, for I’m certain that if I do it will spell doom for us both.

Oh, George, how can I do as you ask? How can I help you escape your torment, when I know that as long as you’re in that camp you’re perfectly safe? I know you; know that as soon as you’re onboard the boat you’ll force it to sail to England. I know that all you want is to return to the fight and catch up with Manus. When will you realise he’s not important anymore, that he doesn’t matter any longer? I know how sly you can be, know that you’ve buried your request at the end of a long letter just so your gaolers will not discover your plans. But you don’t fool me! I’ll never help you escape; I love you too much for that, George, and I’ll never help you kill yourself in the awful mess this war’s become. When you’re there, behind that wire, I know you’re safe and sound and well away from the dreadful turmoil that’s engulfed us all."

Laying the sheet back on the desktop, she reached into the open drawer, rummaged around at the back, and pulled out another photograph, its edges torn when she’d ripped it from its frame months before. But she’d been unable to throw this last image of Manus onto the fire as she’d done, oh so angrily, with all the rest.

Holding the picture of that other love of her life alongside George’s, she completed a triangle of love, hate and guilt. She at the apex, trapped between identical twin and beloved husband; caught between two loves, one born of blood and the other of passion.

Manus’ hurtful words now engulfed her mind. In the cabin on the Sarnia the day she’d arrived in Antwerp after being fooled by him into bringing him money. He’d walked over to her, grabbed her blouse and hauled her back to her feet after knocking her to the floor for protesting at his deceit. "There’s thousands of rifles on board, even machine guns," Manus had hissed, "and we’re going to help our German friends and gain our independence at the same time by starting a bloody war back home - against the bloody English. And you protest at that? You’re a traitor, Molly, a bloody traitor to Ireland. You’re only alive now because you’re my sister.

The repairs should be completed tonight, which means we’ll be on our way in the morning. I’ll keep you locked up until we reach home, and then, once the guns have been unloaded, I’ll release you. Four to five days, Molly, that’s how long you’ll be kept in this cabin, that’s all. But don’t push your luck, watch that temper of yours – don’t make the same mistake father did."

Other images now flooded her mind. Of how George rescued her - images of how all three had stood alongside that burning warehouse on the docks as George’s revolver was all set to send Manus to his grave before she’d leapt in front of her twin; protecting him from George’s wrath. Of how George, because of his love for her, once more set Manus free. She remembered her ecstasy at being reunited with George as they made love in one of the cabins as they sailed away just ahead of the German army. But then remembered how her pleasure turned to deep humiliation; how she’d been unable to look those brave men in the face when standing on the Sarnia’s bridge after realising that it was the brother she’d helped set free who was now attempting to kill them all. Cold-hearted and sinister as he stood in their way, feeling powerful and secure within the ranks of his German friends and their cannons as they attempted to recapture the ship and its cargo of armaments. Remembered the pride she’d felt, as well as her dread, as she’d witnessed George outwit and outfight her brother and his Teutonic allies in that desperate struggle for survival and preventing those guns from reaching Ireland.

Her mind reeled; Manus Eamonn Doherty and George Thomas Wheeler, you can only be side by side in image, never in reality. Why, Manus, why do you do things you do? Why do you think a free Ireland justifies your ruthless excesses? And, George, you can’t rest until my brother is dead. I know he’s bad, know he left our very own dear father to die on his study floor in this very house. I know he killed your best friend after you released him because of your love for me. Know you did the same again, released him once more because I stood in your way, protecting him; know he then tried to kill us both when he re-joined his German friends. But what I don’t know, George, is why I still love him? I know I shouldn’t, I know I should hate him as much as you do, but emotions of love and hate aren’t that far apart, are they? No matter how hard I try, I can’t help but love him, and you need to understand that. But how can you when I don’t understand it myself? Oh, George, all of this is my fault, why have I created all of this mess?

But I’m sorry, my darling, I have no choice but to do everything I can to keep you safe in Holland, and then I’ll also know that whatever befalls Manus, his death will not be by your hand. Oh, George, I have to deny you. I’m sorry, my darling, but I’ve made my decision now. In my reply, I’ll spell out your plan so your gaolers will put an end to any plans of escape.

Please, please believe me when I say I only do this dreadful thing because of my undying love for you, and in my absolute determination to keep you safe. Please, please believe me.

Pulling a fresh piece of writing paper from the drawer and lifting a pen from its holder, she loaded its nib in the inkwell before scratching Monday 8^th March 1915 on top of the sheet. As she wrote, a shiver travelled the length of her spine; looking toward the fireplace she held her dressing gown tightly around her neck, "Oh, I’ve let the fire go out..."

"…Morning, Miss Molly, it’s seven o’clock," Sarah, her maid, entered carrying a breakfast tray. "Still not sleeping well? And you’ve been crying again."

Quickly gathering up George’s letters, Molly used them to cover Manus’ photograph before placing them all back in the drawer; "I’ve been awake since four-thirty as usual. How can I sleep when Mr George is over there and I’m here?"

Sarah placed the breakfast tray on top of the newly cleared dresser, "It won’t do anybody any good if you catch pneumonia, though, will it? It’s bad enough you’re awake half the night without catching a chill as well; the fire’s gone out and you’ve drawn back the curtains, it’s freezing in here. Why don’t you get yourself back into bed to eat your breakfast, Miss Molly? That’ll keep you warm ‘til I re-light the fire."

"Sorry, I opened the vent to make it burn brighter, but forgot about feeding it until it died. And I can’t eat a thing, Sarah, I’ll only be able to manage a cup of tea."

"Mrs O’Keefe says that if you don’t start eating soon she’ll be leaving the kitchen and bringing up your breakfast herself and force feeding you. Just like, she says, they do in prison to them suffragettes you’ve taken to inviting to the house. She says them suffragettes will only bring trouble, and Mr George will be non-too pleased about it."

"Mrs O’Keefe sometimes has too much to say. Much too much!"

"She’s worried about you, Miss Molly, that’s all. Just like we all are, you don’t eat enough to keep a mouse alive these days. When Mr George comes back there’ll be nothing for him to grab a hold of."

"I think you can all stop worrying. I’ve made my decision now and my appetite will surely improve."

"A decision, Miss Molly? Mrs O’Keefe said you were fretting about something. Said she’d never seen you looking so worried since you got that last letter from Mr George. We’re all worried you’re going to sail away across the seas again."

"Mr George would like me to, but my decision is to stay here in Ireland."

"Mr George shouldn’t ask such things. Bad enough the last time when you shot off to that mad place Antwerp to see Mr Manus and nearly got yourself killed. Mr George should know better."

"Mr George’s not trying to put me in any danger, Sarah. He wants me to visit him in the internment camp, wants me to go to Holland where there is no war."

"Oh well, in that case, it’s a wife’s duty to obey her husband, Miss Molly. He’ll be non-too pleased if you disobey him, and it’ll get you well away from them crazy women you’ve taken up with. Er, or so Mrs O’Keefe would say."

"Be careful what you say, Sarah. And you can tell Mrs O’Keefe to stop her gossiping. Maybe I am a bad wife; perhaps Mr George doesn’t deserve to be married to me? But I’ll never help him rejoin this awful war. Do you hear? NEVER!"

George dried his face on the old towel that hung around his neck like a bib before suspending the piece of green flannelette back on the lever that conveniently stuck out from the unlit stove’s smokestack. Then, after pulling his greatcoat collar tightly around his neck and fastening its top button, he combed his hair before moving the bucket he’d just used as a wash bowl from the top of the stove to the floor. He then placed his comb, folded razor, shaving brush, hand-mirror and a small bar of soap inside a wooden locker at the foot of his bed.

"That’s King’s regulations adhered to for yet another bloody morning," he murmured as he closed the locker’s lid before walking over to a calendar hanging on the wall at the side of his room’s only window.

For a few seconds, the large black letters March 1915 focused his thoughts, Groningen bloody camp, how much bloody longer, Molly? You have the power to release me from my torment. So how much bloody longer will you make me wait for your message? Then, grabbing hold of a short pencil that hung unceremoniously on a length of old string dangling from the calendar’s binding, he struck a large heavy cross through the next box in line, consigning Sunday 14^th of March to the past.

After releasing his grip on the pencil, allowing it to swing wildly and clatter against the wall’s wooden boards, he angrily rubbed a thin layer of frost from the inside of a windowpane with his fingertips. Through the frost’s heavy outer layer he could just make out, across a parade ground now enclosed by a four-foot high ring of cleared snow, the smoke that spewed from the cookhouse chimney. A dense, streaming cloud; stark black against the white, snow capped roof of the camp administration centre behind, signalling breakfast will soon be served, but becoming invisible, its message lost, as it spiralled up to the heavens in the pitch-blackness of that late-winter, pre-dawn, northern Dutch skyline.

I know just how that bloody smoke feels; it has a purpose when leaving that smokestack, but by following its natural course it disappears, lost and forgotten, amidst that vast expanse of darkness. I may be forgotten in this damned place, but I’m far from lost, and that cookhouse holds part of the key to my resurrection. The fence is only two feet from the back wall, remove a few boards and cut the wire under cover; then only an hour’s forced march down to the harbour. What could be simpler? When Molly gets her bloody finger out I’ll be gone and well out to sea before anyone even bloody notices.

"Bloody Groningen bloody camp, I’ve seen better bloody views," he slammed his fist down onto the old rickety table that stood in front of the window; causing the home-made chess pieces, standing on parade on the table’s top, to fall over like four ranks of machine-gunned soldiers.

"Sorry, Sir. What did you say, Sir?" young Price asked as he knocked and entered George’s twelve-foot square room carrying a huge mug of steaming tea.

"I’m lamenting, Price, our presence in this bloody dump," George’s breath steamed as much as the tea Price carried in his hand.

"It could be worse, Sir."

"I know, Price, I know. We could be guests of the bloody Jerries instead of the Dutchies," George took his mug of tea from Price. "But that’s small consolation. This place is enough to send any soldier worthy of the name off his bloody head."

Young Price shivered at the thought of being a soldier again, but he knew the captain’s moods, knew when he could stray from the rigid line, and, more importantly, when he couldn’t. So, he agreed, "I know it is, Sir, enough to send any soldier off his head," before lifting the bucket from beside the stove and placing it outside the door.

"Where’s your tea, Price?"

"Chief Pearson had a word with me yesterday, Sir. He said an officer’s servant shouldn’t take liberties. Said I shouldn’t be supping tea in a morning with an officer - said I should just bring one in for you like the others do. And Staff Sergeant Larvin said the same, Sir."

"Did they now? I'll have to have a word with those two gentlemen."

"They’re right, though, aren’t they, Sir. It pays to know your place, Sir."

Walking over to the shelf above his bed, George took down an empty mug, poured half his tea into it, then placed both mugs on the table before sitting down, "I’ll decide where and what your place is, Price, not those two. Understand?"

"But, Sir, they said I'd be in trouble if I continue to take liberties, Sir," Price enjoyed supping tea in a morning with the captain and sensed that George had taken the bait and that his little problem with the two NCOs would soon be resolved.

"I’m the bloody Adjutant," George growled, "I decide who’s in trouble and who isn’t in this bloody camp, don’t I? Now light the fire then sit down and drink your tea before I lose my temper. I enjoy our little chats in a morning. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to them."

Price hid a smirk, "Is it seven ack-emma already, Sir?"

George checked his wristwatch and nodded.

Kneeling in front of the old stove in the corner, Price opened its door then struck a match to light the paper beneath the firewood he’d put in place ten minutes earlier before trudging across to the cookhouse for the hot tea. After slamming the door shut and fully opening its vent, he cocked an ear to listen for the flames’ roar. When satisfied that the burning paper had enough impetus to ignite the sticks, he sat opposite George at the table before picking up his tea, "Soon be warmer, Sir."

Slurping loudly, officer and servant sipped their hot tea as they re-aligned the fallen chess pieces.

Price stood the last pawn in the ranks, "That’s it, Sir, all present and correct. How long before we can leave the stoves going all night again, Sir?"

"According to the Commandant, there’s still a shortage of firewood. So, it’s still no fires for a full hour before lights out until half an hour after reveille. And there’s no sign of a break in the bloody weather yet."

"Its not too bad though, is it, Sir. At least we’ve plenty of blankets. This Dutchy camp’s better than some back in blighty, and much better than a field in bloody France, Sir."

"You’ve been listening to the old hands, Price. Be careful, they can moan for bloody England. I know the Dutchies treat us well but I’d swap this place for a field in France any bloody day."

"I’m not so sure about that, Sir. I wear a khaki uniform, but didn’t enjoy me little stint at soldiering too much after getting collared for the Naval Division when between ships. Just imagine how you’d feel, Sir, if they tried to turn you into a sailor with only three weeks training then sent you out to face Jerry’s High Seas Fleet. I wish I was back onboard ship though, back with the fleet, Sir. Back in bellbottoms; that would be something worth having, Sir."

George pondered his young servant’s words. I’m a regular soldier but became a willing recruit of the secret service, and as a result am now an internee in a Dutch prison camp. Locked away with a bunch of sailors, who, in the infinite wisdom of some silly bugger at the war office, were sent to Antwerp as soldiers in a forlorn effort to prevent the city’s capture by one the most fearsome armies in the world. Held here together for doing a job alien to us both.

"A fascinating conundrum, Price; I long to be back with my Regiment, fighting in some God forsaken corner of France, and you long to be back with the fleet; scouring the high seas for Jerry. Both wanting to get to grips with the Hun again, but neither liking the other’s preferred method of doing so after having experienced it. What an enigma life is, Price, so full of irony. There must be a moral somewhere in all of this?"

Price had no idea what an enigma or irony was, but knew how the army captain he now shared a mug of tea with had saved him and the remnants of the Naval Division’s advance party from certain annihilation when cut off inside Antwerp. Remembered how he saved them by capturing the ship they sailed away from the city in before George brilliantly out-thought and out-fought the jerry artillery that tried to stop them in the estuary, "Don’t know much about morals, Sir. But I do know you showed them Jerries what’s what on the Sarnia, Sir. A naval officer couldn’t have done a better job. You did us proud, Sir."

"Us, Price?"

"The mob, Sir. You know, the fleet, Sir?"

"Steady on, their Lordships at the Admiralty won’t be able to sleep in their beds at night if they hear talk like that about a pongo."

"You’re not a pongo to me, Sir. When our Battle Flag hit the Sarnia’s masthead and I blew me bugle and we went straight for them bloody cannons - what a feeling that was, Sir. What a feeling it was to beat them bloody jerries and stop ‘em getting them guns to them bloody fenians! You did us proud, Sir."

"An old salt at sixteen, hey, Price?"

"I’m seventeen in three weeks, Sir, and been in the navy two and a half years. Joined as a boy seaman and worked me way up to ship’s bugler, Sir."

George laughed, "I know, I know, well done. I’m only pulling your bloody leg. How could I ever forget when you’ve told me at least twenty times? Now, how’s it going with that little Dutch girl you’ve been getting friendly with?"

He referred to the Dutch teenager who visited the camp every Sunday with her father and brother, selling home-made cakes. The Dutch Commandant allowed civilians to come to the gates to sell cakes, sweets and other little luxuries to the internees, but never allowed them inside, all transactions took place through the wire.

"Marije’s going to ask her father to write to the commandant, to see if I can visit her at home every Sunday, Sir. It’s not much fun seeing each other with barbed wire between us. What do you think me chances are, Sir?"

"I should think they’re very good. It’s already happened to two or three others. As long as you sign a parole to say you won’t attempt an escape whilst visiting your lady friend, the commandant seems most accommodating."

"I couldn’t sign something like that, Sir."

"No?"

"If I get the chance I might not be able to resist temptation, Sir, and skip off. I’d love to get back to blighty. So, why do we have orders to stick to things like that? I mean, there is a war on, Sir."

"It’s like this, Price. The Dutch are neutral, which means they have to stay impartial. That’s why, after our little escapade on the Sarnia, when we landed on their territory, we were interned; to be held prisoner for the duration. They do the same with all hostile factions; German, French and Belgium troops who stray across their borders are treated just like we are."

"I know that, Sir. But why do we have to promise not to escape, Sir?"

"We don’t! We only have to promise, if allowed out for a visit, that we’ll come back. Now, we only insist on men keeping their word in those circumstances to stop one man spoiling it for everyone."

"I think I see, Sir? If we accept a privilege, we can’t abuse it, Sir."

"That’s it, Price, you have it. The Dutch are good to us; the food’s bland but we don’t starve, and we get paid regularly so we can buy titbits from the Dutchies, like your little lady friend, who come calling every Sunday. And, although they censor our letters in and out, there’s no restriction on food parcels from home, is there?"

"No, Sir. But I always thought it was our duty to escape, Sir?"

Struggling to stick to the official line, George decided to give his young servant some hope; "It is our duty. However, the Dutchies treat us with respect; we more or less run our own affairs within the confines of the camp. So our orders are not to jeopardise this goodwill, but that promise only lasts for the duration of any visit, which doesn’t stop us escaping directly from the camp itself."

"It don’t, Sir? I thought once you’d signed you weren’t allowed to escape at all, Sir?"

"If the Commandant sanctions your visits, Price, you sign that bit of paper and go and see that little Dutch girl of yours and leave the escape planning to me. Don’t worry, when the time comes I won’t leave you behind."

"I knew you’d be planning something, Sir. I just knew it. I said to Jacko only yesterday, Captain Wheeler’s not the kind of officer to sit on his jacksie when there’s fighting to be done. When are we off, and how do we do it, Sir?"

"I can’t tell you just yet. All I can say is this place will be easy enough to escape from when the time’s right, and I’m only waiting for the message from Miss Molly that’ll help me breech these paper-thin walls we’re behind. Now, not a word to anyone, do you hear? And I mean, ANYONE."

"I like Miss Molly, Sir, I trust her. And don’t worry, me lips are sealed. Mum’s the word, Sir."

"Good," George smiled and checked his wristwatch. "But you’d better not seal them for too long. You’re duty bugler today, and it’s almost time to sound for breakfast. Staff Sergeant Larvin will seal your lips for good if you don’t stand on the square and give us a tune on that horn of yours in precisely three minutes flat."

Young Price disappeared through the doorway like a bullet leaving a rifle barrel; he’d no desire to incur the wrath of the staff sergeant; it would be easier to take on the entire German army all by himself.

As George watched the young bugler rush away to his duties, his thoughts returned to his own predicament. Why bother to let a bugler sound come to the cookhouse now boys, when all we need do is teach the men how to read the smoke signals from across the bloody square? Why bother with any pretence at a military regime at all? After all, we’re not bloody soldiers anymore are we? Not as long as we’re stuck in this God forsaken hole just playing at it we're not. That’s all we’re doing - just bloody playing at soldiers while there’s a bloody war on.

When will she let me know she’s put my plan into action? Five bloody months I’ve been stuck here. Her letters are all fine and romantic, but I don’t want bloody romance; that can wait until I get out of here, wait until we’re together again. My last letter had better spur her into action; I made it as plain as I could without alerting our hosts to my plan; cut through the wire one night, down to the harbour, and sail to England.

Come on, Molly, don’t let me bloody down, its been well over a month since I sent it. Just let me know you’re doing as I ask, it's not that bloody difficult to understand – surely you get my meaning? But that’s always been your trouble, Molly - you think too bloody much! Though I love you as much for that as anything else, you have to realise these uncertain times cry out for action not thought – so don’t let me down, Molly! You know what I need to do. You know I need to get back into this war as well as squeeze the last breath from that bloody fenian twin brother of yours, need to finish off Manus for good with my own two hands – so don’t let me down, stop bloody protecting him!

Sitting behind his desk, Manus looked through the only window of the small office allocated to him in Pforzheim prisoner of war camp’s headquarters, his German uniform’s insignia saying major in intelligence. About fifteen yards away, starkly outlined against the snow, a group of men dressed in British uniforms trudged through the gates in the barbed wire fence escorted by their German guards. Behind them, woodsmoke poured from the smokestacks of the twenty or so wooden huts within his view. Transfixed by those vertical ribbons as they drifted upwards into the clear blue sky, his thoughts drifted to different times, different places. That bloody smoke’s just like the Sarnia after she’d blown up. All that was left of her and three German field batteries was a pall of bloody smoke. All those guns gone in a flash; the bloody trouble we could have caused with that lot back in Ireland? That English bastard Wheeler was lucky that day. If Von Klammer had listened to me then Wheeler would never have pulled off his bloody English trickery, and I’d be in Ireland right now; leading and winning the fight against the bloody English instead of being in this god-forsaken place. But once I’ve formed my Irish Brigade and been re-armed by our friends we’ll show these English bastards how to bloody fight.

Letting out a growl, he looked down at his left hand resting on top of the pile of papers sitting on the desktop. The tailored, leather glove constantly in place in public, hiding the badly scarred tissue that made this hand look as if it belonged to a reptile rather than a human. Most of its usefulness lost in the explosion that destroyed the Sarnia along with his dreams of Irish rebellion back in 1914, and still paining him five months on. Then, as he touched the newly healed four-inch scar on the left side of his face with the fingers of his right hand, his hatred for his brother-in-law and twin sister intensified. One day, Wheeler, one day I’ll pay you back for the mess you left me in when you blew up that bloody ship! And you, Molly, oh traitorous sister of mine, you’ll pay just as big a price as that English bastard you married will. George and Molly, Mr and Mrs bloody perfect, one day you’ll pay for all this, one bloody…

"…The first bunch are here, Sir. All fifteen of ‘em."

Manus stiffened in his chair before looking up, "Good, but next time don’t sneak in like that, knock first. How many in total in this bloody dump, Sergeant- Major, did you say over six hundred?"

Patrick Daley, a stocky Irishman dressed in German uniform, stood in front of Manus ignoring his superior’s reproach, "According to the roll, there’s six hundred and twenty-three prisoners from Irish regiments in this camp, Sir. I hope we have more luck than in the last bloody place?"

"Don’t be so bloody pessimistic, Sergeant-Major. We’ve recruited thirty-five, not including you, for our Irish Brigade, that’s a bloody good start."

A bloody good start my arse, thought Daley, we’ve seen over seven bloody hundred so far and not enough have joined to field a full bloody platoon, let alone a fucking brigade. This eejit’s bloody dreaming, "Course it is, Sir," Daley lied through his smile. "A bloody good start to be sure, Sir."

"That’s better, Sergeant-Major, a bit of optimism for the cause, that’s much better. Now show the first man in, and let’s see how many of this lot are true Irishmen and keen to sign up for the cause."

Opening the door, Daley glared at the row of British uniforms waiting in the corridor before signalling the first man in line to enter.

The burly, ginger-haired corporal, his grubby uniform carrying the now lack-lustre brass insignia of the Dublin Fusiliers, cautiously moved past Daley and entered the small office, his eyes constantly darting between Daley at the door and Manus behind the desk. How could the new Feldwebel who held open the door for him, and gestured with his hand towards the chair in front of the officer’s desk, look so much like his old colour sergeant? Captured together at Ypres just before Christmas, but sent to different camps, It can’t be him, he reasoned, It had better fucking not be! Bad enough stuck in this bloody dump for the past three months without that bastard being here as well.

Daley closed the door, "Sit yourself down, Jimmy darling, and don’t look so bloody worried, we’re not going to bloody bite yous."

Jimmy quickly made sure his back came into contact with the wall, "What the bloody hell’s this? I thought it was you, Colour, but what the fuck are yous doing in a jerry uniform? What the fuck’s going on?"

Daley laughed, a mocking not a jovial laugh, "That’s the Jimmy O’Flynn I remember, always asking bloody questions, that’s our bloody Jimmy."

Manus glared at Daley before speaking to Jimmy, "Sit down, Corporal, and don’t look so worried, I’m only here to put a proposition to you that no true Irishman could resist, that’s all."

Jimmy sat at the desk as ordered; one last uneasy glance at his old colour sergeant before turning to look directly at Manus, "Not so sure I like being propositioned by men in jerry uniforms, Sir, especially when they’ve got Irish accents."

"Don’t worry about these uniforms, Corporal, we’re all true Irishmen here."

"Ah, but you see, Sir, me mammy always taught me that clothes are a guide to a man’s character, so they are."

Manus smiled, "I’m sure your mammy would be happy if she knew why we’re wearing these particular clothes."

"Ah well, me mammy’s not so easily pleased, Sir, so she’s not. A holy terror when riled, Sir."

"That’s exactly what we’re looking for, Corporal. Holy terrors for the cause."

"And what cause would that be, Sir?"

Rising to his feet, Manus clumsily held in his next to useless left hand one of the sheets from the pile on his desk, "The best cause in the world, Corporal! No, the best bloody cause in the whole bloody universe. You see, with the help of the German Government I’m forming an Irish Brigade, and I’m here to ask you a direct question. Are you willing to fight for the freedom of your homeland, willing to fight for a free Ireland?"

"Fight for a free Ireland? I thought that’s what I’d been doing, thought that’s why I ended up behind this bloody wire?"

Laying the sheet on the desk, Manus dipped a nib in the inkwell before holding it out to Jimmy, "Oh no, Corporal, far from it. You’ve been fighting for England, your country's hereditary enemy. You’ve been fighting to free Belgium, though it’s no more to you than the Fiji Islands. The sole object of our Irish Brigade is to fight for Irish freedom and in the process bring the bastard English to their knees. Are you willing to join us in our Irish brigade, Corporal, willing to sign this piece of paper and fight for a truly free Ireland this time? Are you a true Irishman? Will you make your mammy proud as well as happy?"

© John Sales 2006